


Confidential

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accepting your Sexuality, Coming In Pants, First Kiss, Fluff, John's Journal, M/M, Making Out, Passing Mentions of Mary and Sarah, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, The Confidential File, so much love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 17:11:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3577392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John accidentally stumbles upon the Confidential file Sherlock's been keeping on him he is both angry and curious.  What he learns about himself, though--well, that changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confidential

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry All, but this is soooo un-betaed. 
> 
> I'm in the worst state of writers block at the moment, so I just set out to write something purely for fun. And since I'd never written first-person from John's point of view, and I find his writing tone on his blog incredibly cute, I decided to try my hand at this to knock me out of the doldrums. 
> 
> So this is just for fun. All mistakes are mine, obviously. 
> 
> Enjoy!

I’m not sure why I’m bothering to put all this down.It will never be published in the blog.But—I need somewhere to put it, and there’s no one to talk to, no one I would even want to.  

This _thing_ —this thing I need to put down in black and white—it feels huge somehow.  And I’m angry about it, I think…  No—definitely—definitely angry about it.

Ella would be pleased.  I’m sure this is the sort of navel-gazing drivel she had originally hoped I’d put down when she suggested I start a blog.  But I don’t do that.  I don’t—I don’t do _this_.

Fuck, this is hard.  Why is it so hard?  I know that no one will ever even see this.

Yeah, no.  I can’t, can’t do this.

 

* * *

So here’s the thing.  Sherlock’s always been—different; eyeballs in the pickle jar, severed digits in the crisper, my dresser drawers pillaged, jumpers unravelled and stained to test tensile strength and dye fastness, traipsing around the flat mostly naked a few times that first year, completely cold and aloof one moment, and then so human, almost vulnerable the next.  He’s never adhered to the social niceties or seemed to fully grasp personal boundaries.  I’ve gotten used to it for the most part, but this—this _thing_ he’s done…

_This_ is different.

This is…  What is it exactly?  If it was anyone else I would say it was unsettling, unhealthy, obsessive, borderline stalker behaviour.  But this is Sherlock, so…  I don’t know.  In Sherlock’s world, in Sherlock’s head, this is almost…

No.  See, I just don’t know what this is.

I guess I should probably start at the beginning, yeah?

A few months ago I came back to live at our flat in Baker St..  There had been the marriage.  But that—well, you already know all that.  And it ended.  It’s over.  Everything’s over.  All that bit with Moriarty was on the blog for all the world to see.  Well, the bits that the Official Secrets Act allowed me to publish, anyway.  

It feels weird to wake up mornings now, and be able to sit with a cup of coffee and the morning newspaper and not have my stomach clench with anxiety anytime I hear a police siren down the street or Sherlock’s phone chiming with an incoming text.  

It’s been good.  Calm.  Peaceful.  And I should be happy, right?  I should be so relieved, and finally just sort of enjoying myself.  I’m not even at the clinic at present.  Just helping Sherlock out with minor cases and such.  Mostly I just sit around the flat in my pyjamas and watch crap telly.  Friday nights I sometimes join Mrs. Hudson for a little herbal soother, and some silly romantic film on DVD.  

Sherlock’s usually out on a case.  

I don’t always go now.  My leg slows me down.  The bullet Mary put there finally turned that psychosomatic limp into something a little more tangible.  It hurts all the time - but not all that badly.  I just—I can’t keep up.  I slow him down, and so I insist he leave me behind.  

It worries me—him out there on his own.  But he promises me he will take care, and I think he knows I would be more of a liability than a help now, that I’d just embarrass myself if we needed to chase someone down at a moment’s notice.  I’m rather useless.  I know it.  He knows it.  We don’t really talk about it, but then we don’t really talk about much of anything these days.

And maybe that is why this _thing_ , came as such a shock.

So the other day a mouse shows up in the flat—in the kitchen.  Not really surprising.  For all the sitting around the flat I’ve been doing…  Well, I’ve been doing just that—sitting around.  The flat’s a disaster.  Mrs. Hudson’s hip has been bothering her, and she’s been leaving the flat to us more since I moved back anyway.  The plates on the counter were starting to grow things, I think.  Some of them were probably going to sprout legs and walk away if something wasn’t done about the mold soon.

Anyway, this mouse scoots out from under the refrigerator while I’m looking for something for lunch, and then heads straight down the hallway into Sherlock’s bedroom.  Probably should have just left it.  That might have been kind of entertaining, actually.  But, I was feeling generous, and since Sherlock would probably not be back from his case until after dark, I felt like saving him from the possibility of slipping naked beneath the sheets only to find that a fuzzy little friend had already made his home there.

I ended up chasing the thing hither and yon.  Finally the ruddy bastard ran into the wardrobe.  Now I know that Sherlock doesn’t want this little guy nibbling on the cuffs and collars of Italian silk shirts, and bespoke suits.  He’d never forgive me if I didn’t do my utmost to catch the bugger.   So, in I went, tossing everything out of the bottom of wardrobe in an attempt to catch him.  But off he dashed again, and on and on, until I finally got the plastic trashcan from the loo over him, and outside he went to battle London traffic.

Of course, then I had to clean up after my little adventure, and that is where things got weird…

There had been a couple of pairs of shoes in the bottom of that wardrobe, and also some magazines and such, but there was also this wooden box.  It had a lock.  I don’t know if it was locked and I knocked it out of there with such ferocity that it popped open, or whether maybe it was never locked in the first place?  Anyway, all of the contents of it had scattered all over the floor.

So, I start to pick the stuff up, and stuff it back in.  It was mostly papers of one kind or another.  Looked like printed out lists and spreadsheets, and medical records, things like that.  And then I see my name.  Yeah, I know, right - my name.  So I start looking at the papers more carefully, and they were all about me.  My medical records.  My case notes from my sessions with Ella.  My military discharge papers.  Some photos.  My CV.  My whole bloody life in this box in Sherlock’s wardrobe.

I was seeing red, let me tell you.  I kind of hoped that he would come home right then because I’ve never wanted to lay into someone so much in my life!  

There were medical records going all the way back to my childhood.  Stuff I’d rather he not know about.  Stuff I’d rather no one know about, you know!  That broken arm Dad gave me in fourth year.  The broken ribs I got when he and I got into it when I was 16.  The alcohol poisoning I got at uni.  The nature and causes of my injuries while I was deployed. 

And of course all of the notes of my time with Ella.  

I read those.  I mean even I hadn’t seen those before, and the things she said…  The bloody ridiculous conclusions she came to sometimes!  She’s worse than Harry with some of the shite she was insinuating.  I swear, I am never setting foot in that woman’s office ever again!

There were also all these lists and things - stuff I like and don’t like.  I mean it was all really detailed and accurate, but—that’s not the point…  Oh, and ridiculous stuff, like how long I take to shower, and why it takes me longer sometimes than others (deduce from that what you will).  Oh, oh, oh, and icing on the cake?!  A printout of Da Vinci’s Vitruvian man with a clipped photo of my face pasted on.  Yeah—that’s not creepy at all!

So now I don’t know what to do.  I took the file.  I took it and put it in my room, and then I put everything back exactly as it had been.  But, I’m pretty sure that Sherlock knows.  He knows I was in his room for sure.  If he’s checked, he knows I took the file.  But, he’s not said anything.  He’s been quiet, and somewhat evasive, but he’s been that way almost since I moved back in.  So…  What do I do?

Weirdly, I kind of want to finish reading what’s in there.  Right now every time I walk past my dresser, I think about that damn file.  There was some really insightful stuff in there.  

Much as I hate to admit it, one of the things that sort of made me forgive all of Sherlock’s shite from day one was that amazing ability he has to just see stuff.  Like he’ll just look at you and know what you ate for breakfast.  It’s ridiculous, but so fantastic, and when we met I was sort of—I don’t know…  I just felt really out of touch with myself.  Ella said it was dissociation and PTSD from Afghanistan, but…  

Well, I don’t think that’s quite right, really.  I’ve never really felt that I know myself at all, not even as a kid.  Sometimes I’d get up in the morning, look in the mirror and not even know the boy looking back.  I mean that really literally.  I just didn’t even recognise myself.  It would take me a minute.  

But Sherlock—well, he just looked at me and instantly knew me better than I had ever known myself in my life.  And sitting in that cab listening to him peal off all those rapid-fire deductions about my military service, and Harry and her drinking, and the phone, and my relationship with her and Clara…  It was…  It was like looking into this magic mirror that could finally show you your real self, all the things you always wanted to know about yourself, but couldn’t quite catch hold of.  

I sat there listening to him, looking at him, and it was like I somehow knew that as long as he was there I would never have one of those weird mirror moments again.  If he was there, then I could always just listen to him, look at him, and recognise myself again.  It was—it was intoxicating to be honest.  I remember feeling heady, giddy, and then suddenly there we were at Lauriston Gardens, and there was the pink lady, and more amazing deductions and I just sort of floated along in a cloud for the rest of that night.

But he stopped deducing me a long time ago.  Maybe it was because he got shouted at or given the silent treatment every time he tried.  I don’t know why I was so open to it that first night, and then got more and more irritated by it as time went on.  

Oh, look!  One more thing to add to the pile of motivations I can’t define.  See!  I need that, I need to be able to look at him and see myself, but then I get angry at him for it and push him away?!!  That makes no sense.  Even I can see that.  Maybe Ella is right.  Maybe there really is something wrong with me…

I mean, obviously she’s not right about everything.  Seriously, you would not believe some of the nonsense…  But, maybe I do hide from myself somehow.  Maybe I started getting angry at Sherlock for deducing everything about me because I wasn’t comfortable being that known?

Sarah sort of accused me of that in New Zealand when she was breaking up with me.  She said that I was never ‘with’ her when I was with her.  She said that I didn’t want to be emotionally available, or open, or intimate with her, and she’d be damned if she was going to start shagging me just for the fun of it.  She said she was past that point in her life.  She was wanting something serious, and that she was never going to get that from me.

I guess she was right really…

It was a pity.  I really liked Sarah.  She was a lot of fun, and she didn’t seem to mind a little bit of danger.  I mean, christ, our first date she was knocking out gangsters, and nearly getting killed, and yet she stayed.  Plus she smelled good, and had great hair and legs, and was an AMAZING kisser.  

But even she blamed Sherlock.  She said she was always going to be second fiddle to him.  And at the time, with everything that had happened with Moriarty at the pool…  I had to concede that she was right.  Because I would have died with him that night.  I would have died for him.  I would have.  I didn’t even have to think about it.  It was just instinct to jump Moriarty like that, to give Sherlock a chance to escape. 

And my life was always going to be that.  I wasn’t going to give that life up for Sarah.  And so, in that way, I suppose she was right.  The cases, the danger, and Sherlock and the life we were building together would always come first, will always come first.  Because what else is there, really?  I tried all the normal stuff.  The wife, and baby, and stable job at the clinic.  Christ it was dull!  It just about killed me - literally and figuratively.  I’m never going back to that!

But, where was I…?  Oh yeah, the file.  I do kind of want to read it.  

I guess when my negative reactions stopped Sherlock from deducing me out loud he just started tucking it all away in written form?  Honestly, I don’t even know why he bothered.  It’s a HUGE file.  Really thick.  There is so much information in there.  And quite frankly, I’m pretty boring.  I have no idea how he could gather that much data just on me, and more importantly, WHY he would even want to.  I mean who does that (outside of obsessed, psycho, stalker serial killers, I mean)?!!

Well, Sherlock’s just got home, so over and out.  More later maybe.

 

* * *

So, I did it.  I started reading through this bloody thing.  It’s completely mad the stuff he’s compiled on me!  I don’t even know this level of detail about my own sister.  

He’s got my blood-type, and biometrics from my last physical.  

He’s got my favourite teas and coffees - not just types, but also brands - and how I take them.  

He’s got the brands of personal care products I use.  Hell, I don’t even know what brands I use.  I just grab whatever’s cheap.

But also…  Well things that are more—intimate somehow.  For instance, he had a long list of all the violin compositions that help me sleep.  I recognised some of them.  Sometimes in that first year and a half we were together I would still have the occasional nightmare.  Certain cases would trigger it for some reason.  And often when I woke up, Sherlock would be downstairs playing the violin.  It made me feel safe, somehow, and I would always go right back to sleep, instead of laying awake in the dark sweating through the sheets, which is what I used to do before he came along. 

To know that somehow Sherlock knew this, that he paid attention to the pieces that made me fall back asleep the quickest…  I don’t know, that’s—that’s really sort of thoughtful, you know.  I guess I never really thought of him as thinking about things that way—friendship and stuff—the way you do little thoughtful things for people you care about.  

Grand, thoughtless gestures always seemed more his thing anyway:  

  * Here, John, I’ll jump off a building and pretend to be dead for two fucking years to keep you safe.  
  * Oh John, don’t worry about your assassin wife’s safety, or the safety of the other man’s child she’s carrying.  I’ll shoot this media magnate in the head and be exiled to Eastern Europe just to ensure your questionable happiness.  



So yeah—I guess that tender little observation and gesture with the violin music sort of surprised me, pleasantly surprised me, to be honest.

I mean he has been different since he came back two years ago.  Sometimes softer…  Or maybe that’s not the right word.  He just seems sort of—more open—yeah, that’s it.  He seems sort of vulnerable sometimes.  I don’t see it a lot, but sometimes in quiet, private moments, just sitting about the flat in the mornings, or late night take-away picnics by the fire.  

I think he’s worried about me (and I kind of don’t blame him—I’m a bit of a mess), but there’s something else, too, and I don’t know what.  I try not to think about it much.

He was really angry with me after the wedding.  Oh, he never came right out and said so, but, there was the drugs, and the Magnussen case, and that utter shite with Janine.  He just seemed to be doing so many things that were custom designed to work me up.  I think he was as upset as I was about the baby at first, whether he said so or not.  Because, the marriage, well that wasn’t really going to change a thing (okay, maybe it would have, but I didn’t think so at the time).  But a baby—well, that’s different, you know.  That’s sure to shake things up.  

So maybe he was just sore about losing his mate and colleague.  But then after everything with Mary, and then Moriarty, and Mycroft, and just all of it, he softened out again.  He was so concerned, worried (?), almost raw sometimes.

I woke up in the hospital after Mary shot me and he was asleep in a chair beside my bed, head tucked up against my ribs.  He looked so small…  And I get it.  I felt like that after he got shot.  That I was going to lose him again, and that I couldn’t, just couldn’t because if there is no Sherlock, then there is no John.  Like I said, I can’t recognise or even know myself without him.

But, surely he didn’t feel that.  He doesn’t feel things _that_ way.  I don’t know what he felt.  But, he wouldn’t leave the hospital for anything, and he hovered all the time.  The nurses were always having to ask him to move when they would come to take my vitals and such.  I had to get Greg to force him to eat, and go home, shower, and rest up a bit.  He became my shadow almost.  I won’t lie, I pretended to be low on patience for the clinginess, but it was also kind of nice.  

You see, he came back after those two years, and I’d moved on with Mary.  All our time was taken up planning that damn pointless wedding.  We only managed to fit in a few cases.  I missed him.  I missed what we used to have.  So having him always there in the hospital with me was a bit of a treat.

But it was also strange, because as I said, he’s changed somehow.  

One time I woke up in the middle of the night, and he’d fallen asleep in the chair next to my bed again (sometimes he would read to me to help me fall asleep), and he’d slumped forward, head on the edge of the mattress, and he had his hand wrapped around mine.  

I’m sure the night nurse had been in once while I slept, probably saw, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to care because it was so wildly out of character for him, and he looked twelve years old all of a sudden.  And really, it was comforting, that, having his hand over mine like that, where I could feel him there—warm, safe, alive; when I could feel the blood coursing through his veins and know that once I was healed, once I was out of hospital, we could go back to the flat, and maybe, finally, start again, get back everything we lost.

Sad then, that it’s not really turned out that way…  Though, now I think of it, that’s probably more my fault than his.  Like I said, I’m a mess right now.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

Wow…  This sort of went wildly off track.  I’m meant to be talking about the ‘Confidential File’, and here I am prattling on about Sherlock instead.  Best set this aside for a bit.

 

* * *

Umm…  So now things are getting really weird.  Now I’m going to say something—definitely say something!!!

There are charts in here on my bathing habits, my sleeping schedules, my digestion (including urination and bowel movement data), and most infuriatingly my wanking schedule (I have a schedule?!).  

How…?  You know what, I don’t even care how he knows this stuff.  He’s Sherlock, I’m sure he has his methods.  What I want to know is why?!  Good god!  Who keeps this sort of data on a flatmate?!!!  Even a friend!?  Even a BEST friend?!!

Christ!!!  That’s it.  I’m definitely saying something!

 

* * *

Okay, so I didn’t say anything.  

But hear me out, because something happened.

I think Sherlock is reading this.  I came home from the shops today, and he was on my laptop.  I’ve told him a MILLION TIMES not to use my laptop.  I even changed my password.  Oh, and of course I password protected this document.  Something really random too, so he couldn’t guess.  But, I still think he managed it.

So anyway, I come home, hands full of groceries, and he’s sitting there engrossed in something on my laptop, and I swear that as I mounted the top of the stairs I saw him make a quick move to click out of a window he had open, like some bloody kid caught guiltily looking at porn.  

Anyway, I come in, and he’s just sitting there cool as can be, and then he says, totally out of the blue, “John, are you going to stay?”

Well, as you can imagine I was already miffed about the laptop.  My leg was hurting, too, from carrying too many bags home in the cold, and then, like an idiot, trying to carry them all up the stairs to the flat at once. 

So, I just snapped, “how many times do I have to tell you not to use my laptop.  Jesus Christ, Sherlock, am I not allowed any privacy at all?!”

And he got this look then, sort of—small, like I’ve been mentioning—and he just got up and went to his room and shut the door.  I stood there trying to figure out what had just happened.  

It was only then that I registered what he’d asked.  ‘Am I going to stay??’  Stay where?  Here at the flat?  Where else would I go?  I have no idea what he was on about.

Anyway, he’s been in his room all night, and I’ve gone to bed now too.  I’m going to keep my laptop up here from now on.  I mean if he’s read this and upset himself, it’s his own bloody fault.  Christ!  He’s into all my stuff all the time!  It’s so…

Well, that was strange.  He just came up here and apologised for using my laptop.  Just knocked on the door, and when I snapped, “What?!” (why do I snap at him so much lately?), he opens the door just a crack, peeks his head in (still so small) and says, 

“John, I’m sorry.”

So I asked for what, and he said for using my laptop without asking first.

What could I say.  I—I told him I accepted his apology.  It was the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had with him.  It was unprecedented, I think.  And then as soon as I told him it was okay, and just to not do it anymore, he just nodded and left.

I kind of want to—I kind of want to go after him, to be honest.  But why?  There’s really nothing more to be said, so…  It just felt sort of—unfinished?  

I really don’t mean to be so short lately.  Usually that sort of thing doesn’t bother me this much.  I think maybe I’m just a lot more upset by this Confidential File thing than I realise…  That must be it.

I just feel like—well maybe I owe some sort of apology too.  

I’ve been so down since I got out of the hospital.  I’ve been no fun at all.  I’ve been avoiding cases because I feel old, and useless, and just—tired.  It seems like all I ever do is watch telly and snap at Sherlock, and that’s not fair to him.  Why should he have to pay for my inability to pull myself up by the bootstraps and get on with life?  

God, this is exactly what I was like when I got back from Afghanistan, after that ambush in Kandahar, and things with…  Well, the rest doesn’t matter.  But this is how I was, and then Sherlock came along, and I wasn’t anymore.  But now…

God!  I hate this.  I hate that this is all I am all the time.  Just—just wasted space…

I can’t expect Sherlock to fix this.  This is me, it’s my thing.  I’ve got to fix it, but I don’t even know what _it_ is…

You know what, I’m going to read some more of this damn file, and see if it answers any of my questions.

 

* * *

Sherlock made me breakfast.  

Yeah, I’m mentioning that first because I don’t think he’s ever done that before.  He makes tea often, but not a full meal.  Like this was something to rival what Mrs. Hudson might make.  There was toast and jam, eggs, sausage, tomatoes, and some sort of nice seasoning on the tomatoes (salt, and pepper, but also basil I think).  

I didn’t even know he cooked.  He’s going to regret letting me know that.  Now I want to know what else he can make!  

I would never tell Mrs. Hudson this, but I think I like the way he fixed the eggs better than the way she does them.  Definitely better than the scrambled eggs Mary used to make.  Gah, they were always so bland and wet!  She never cooked them long enough.

Anyway, I just shovelled it down.  My appetite’s been a bit off lately, but not this morning.  That food was damn delicious.  Yeah, he’s definitely going to regret letting me know about his culinary skills—definitely!

I don’t know why he did it.  Maybe he feels like he has to still apologise because of the computer thing yesterday?  Oh god, maybe that was it.  Maybe I should have…  I probably should have said it was okay, that he didn’t have to keep apologising.  

Okay, I texted him and told him that the breakfast was great, but that if it was meant to be a second level apology, or something, that it wasn’t necessary.  It’s done now.  He’s in the shower.  I’m in my room, but I can hear the water running.  He’ll probably get it when he gets out.

Okay, so back to the File.  I found a really interesting document in here.  It’s all handwritten, and it looks like he’s been working on it over a long stretch of time.  The handwriting changes a little here and there, as does the ink and width of nib.  It’s a document that’s just called, “What Makes John, John.”

Well, I wondered - What does make me, me (according to Sherlock Holmes, anyway)?

 

**1) John cares what other people think (a lot!!)**

Well, of course I do!  Who doesn’t?  I don’t know if he meant this as derogatory, or…  I mean he’s seemed confused by my caring about that at times.  I guess to Sherlock the majority of the human race seems so far below his notice that he can’t fathom why anyone would care what they think.  But, there are things he doesn’t understand—like how people talking can start rumours, and how those rumours can get out of control, and then—well, it can just end badly.

He should know.  He really should.  Kitty Riley and all her rumours and lies.  Even if her ‘paper’ was really just a pap rag, people read it, people believed it, and…  Well, I can’t even think about that, all that came from that.  

And that’s why I care.  I don’t like to see Sherlock’s good name and reputation dragged through the mud.  I don’t like to see his face drop the way it does on some rare occasions, when someone’s cruel and unfounded suppositions actually do affect him.

Or maybe he meant—I don’t know—maybe he meant that I care too much about what other people think of me?  Do I?  Maybe.  Certain people especially, I guess.  

My sister’s always been one to make assumptions, assumptions she has no compunction to suppress it seems.  And a lot of people assume a lot of things they have no right assuming.  Even fucking Ella apparently, now I’ve read all her case notes.

So yeah, I guess I do care.  It makes me fucking furious that people think they have a right to make assumptions about my personal life.  Why?  Is it because I put myself out there a little with the blog, or because Sherlock’s become a bit of a celebrity?  So now they feel they have a right to our private lives, to our relationship, to things that are really important, and nobody’s business but ours?!

Of course people have been making these assumptions long before Sherlock and I started sharing a flat.  There was Afghanistan, and James, and…  

That’s sort of a perfect example, actually, because there was zero going on between us.  He was my commanding officer for fuck sake!  And yes, we enjoyed one another’s company, and yeah, I would have died for him, almost did actually, and I’d do it again, in a heartbeat, but the shite people said, and I’m still fairly certain that it was the stress of all that nonsense that had him off his game, that led to that training mission gone bad.  Yeah, I’m pretty sure that was my fault, really.  Well, mine and all the bloody arseholes who talked, and talked, and spread vicious and unfounded rumours.

I just…  It was just once, and not even anything.  It was nothing.  And we had been stuck all night in that rubble, with insurgents all around, and we were exhausted, and freezing cold, and we were just talking about things, as you will.  I shouldn’t have started talking about my dad.  Yeah, I see that now.  It got me a bit upset.  But we both knew that we were probably not going to make it out that night alive, and he—he didn’t mean anything by what he did.  

It was just—it was just a kiss.  That’s all.  Just once, and it was—it was…  God, it was so nice, but it wasn’t worth everything that came after.  All he had to go through.  

And no one even knew about it, that’s the thing.  That happened once near the end of my time in Afghanistan, but people assumed anyway—the entire time I was under his command.  In fact maybe it even happened because of those assumptions, you know.  Everyone already assumed we were…  So, why not!  

Fuck.  They probably would have dragged him through the mud like that no matter what.  I—I don’t know what I’m even getting at here, it’s just that—yeah, I care a lot about what people think, because what people think effects people I care about, and in really awful ways.

Oh yeah, another good example - Harry.  She gets caught kissing Melissa behind the school once in tenth year, and that was it, it was over for her.  Small village, news travels fast.  She didn’t have a choice but to tell Dad, and that landed her a black eye and his eternal judgement and scorn.  It made life 110% harder than it already was.  She didn’t need that.  She had enough trouble just trying to take care of the two of us.  

I kind of understand why she started running off to parties with Melissa any chance she got, why when she wasn’t at school, or with her, she was drunk in her room.  I probably would have done the same, to be honest.

Sherlock’s just got out of the shower.  God, he was in there a long time.  I wonder if he has a case on.  He was probably conditioning his hair or some nonsense.  

Actually, I could be up for a case if it’s nothing too strenuous.  Maybe I’ll ask him if he minds if I tag along.

 

* * *

Well, I’m good and knackered.  I have to admit that felt good, out running again.  The pain in my leg is excruciating, but I can’t be buggered to care.  At least I got out of this damn flat and had a little fun again.  

It was a good case, too.  It even had Sherlock stumped for awhile.  But of course he figured it out in the end.  Amazing as usual!  I told him, too, because I haven’t said anything in forever, and haven’t written up a case on the blog in forever, either.

“Brilliant!” I said, and meant it.

He smiled then, and I can’t remember the last time I saw him smile.  So—yeah, it was a good day.  

Time for some take-away.  It’s been awhile since we’ve done that too.  Almost feels like old times…

 

* * *

I took some pain killers, but I don’t think they were strong enough, and I can’t sleep.  This is ridiculous.  I’m 45, not 85!

Dinner was good, we ate, and pulled the chairs over so we could watch a little telly after.  It was just the news.  Sherlock noticed my leg, of course.  I told him it was nothing, but he knew I was lying.  He kept staring at it, when he thought I wasn’t looking, sitting there with his fingers steepled in front of his lips.

I finally got up to take a pain killer, but he snapped at me to sit down and went and got it for me.  That was a first.  Does he still think that he has to apologise for the laptop thing?  I told him it was fine.  I told him twice.  I don’t even know.

Now I kind of wish I’d taken two, but my leg hurts too much to want to brave the stairs to go down and get another.  Hmm…  Maybe I will try.  This really is unbearable. 

 

* * *

So, I went down to get those pain killers last night after that case, and then realised there was no way I was getting back up those stairs again.  

Sherlock was still up, sitting exactly where I had left him in his chair, fingers still steepled under his chin, still staring blankly at my chair.  I assumed he was in his bloody mind palace, so I just flopped down on the couch, and figured I’d kip there.

God that couch is uncomfortable.  We really need to either get it reupholstered or get a new one.  Anyway, I had just laid down with an unavoidable hiss of pain, when Sherlock looks over at me.

“You’re not going to sleep there.”  Not a question.  A statement.

I kind of laughed.  “Well, I had though about it, yeah.  I’m not going to get back up those stairs again tonight.”

And then he told me to take his bed.

We got into a little back and forth over that.  I told him that he had been run off his feet just as much as I had, that he looked completely done in, and I was NOT taking his bed if that meant he would get inadequate sleep.  He’s so prone to sacrificing sleep when he really needs it.

And of course he argued, and back and forth we went.  But, I was really so tired, and I just wanted to sleep so that I could forget the pain.  So, I said—and I don’t even know why I said it,   like I said, I was super tired, and also those pain killers tend to make me a little loopy—I said, “Well, I’ll sleep in your bed if you do too, because you need to sleep.”

That shut him up quick.  I think I actually heard his teeth click, he clamped his mouth closed so suddenly.  So I added, “It’s the only logical thing.”

What could he say to that?  Ha!  Not a thing.

Actually, I wasn’t really thinking, and it wasn’t until we were both in his room that I realised I’d maybe got myself in a little deeper than I’d realised.  I just figured I’d flop into bed, and fall asleep and that would be it, but—well, Sherlock went all shy or something.  I was already in my pyjamas, but he was dressed, and got flustered when he realised he would have to change.  God knows why.  This is the man who used to walk around here in nothing but a sheet—if I was lucky!

So he goes into the loo, and then comes back out because he forgot his pyjamas, and then he goes and changes, and comes back again and says, “I usually sleep naked.”

“Well, you’re not tonight,” I replied.

And so he just stands there.  I’m already in bed at this point, and christ, that bed is sooo much more comfortable than mine!  Nice firm mattress, and I think that the people who make those shirts of his, must also make his sheets.  They were so soft it was a sin.   Anyway, he just stands there, and finally he says, “What do I do?”

I have no idea what he was on about, I swear.  Really, sometimes his train of thought completely escapes me.  So, I just asked him, “What do you usually do?”

“I sleep on that side,” he says.  Meaning, of course, the side I was already occupying, furthest from the door.  So I slid over.  No big deal. 

“There you go.”

So he FINALLY gets in, and then he says, “I sleep on my side.”

“Fine.  I sleep on my back.”  I told him.

“I don’t think I snore,” he then tells me. 

I set him straight on that point.  “Yes, you do.”

He looked really affronted for the briefest of moments, but what could he say.  

I told him to just shut off the lamp and go to sleep.

He did shut it off, but he didn’t go to sleep.  I could sense him there in the dark, all tense, and breathless.  So I demanded to know what was wrong.  He assured me nothing.  I told him to go to sleep again.  I think he tried.  

I must have drifted off.  When I woke up again the room was sort of grey with the beginnings of dawn, and Sherlock was still awake.  Just laying there looking at me.  

I asked him if he’d slept at all.  He shook his head, and I told him that he had to, doctors orders.  He did shut his eyes then, but I fell asleep again straight off, and when I woke up finally, it was late morning, and Sherlock was clattering around out in the kitchen.  No breakfast, but nice hot tea greeted me when I was finally able to drag my achy old arse out of bed.

I guess it might be awkward now?  I wasn’t thinking about that last night.  Sherlock’s not said anything about it.  He did offer to go up and get my laptop from my room, and I accepted.  I still don’t think I can get up those stairs.

He’s gone out now.  I think I’ll maybe take another nap

 

* * *

I’ve been so out of sorts lately, that I hadn’t been doing my physio exercises like I should have been, and oh did I pay for it.  Today I could barely walk, and Sherlock fussing about me like a mother hen.

I slept in Sherlock’s room again last night.  This time it went more smoothly.  He told me I couldn’t go to my own room, and I didn’t argue.  My leg has stiffened up something horrible.  I have almost no tone.  Last night I knew that I was going to have to fold soon, and ask for assistance with stretching it out, if it didn’t improve.  So yeah, Sherlock got no argument from me.  

He went to bed when I did (which never happens!), but he changed and crawled right in, and actually seemed to fall asleep quite quickly this time—before even I did, I think.  I slept straight through as well, but this time when I woke up my leg decided it was done for.  There was no way I was getting out of bed without some assistance.  

I laid there for a long time, thinking about it.  It was so embarrassing to ask for help.  It’s not that I didn’t think Sherlock would help, or even that I questioned whether he would want to, it was more just—I guess it was vanity, or pride.  It’s fucking ridiculous to be like this at my age.

It was quite quiet in the flat, so I didn’t even know if Sherlock was home.  I finally texted him.  After an hour he came practically crashing through the door to the bedroom.  “What do you need?”  Out of his lips before he was even fully through the door.  And he really did sound earnest, you know.

So, I sort of tried to make light of it best I could, but really, I was not going to be able to get out of bed until I got some flexibility back into my thigh.  I told him what to do, how to bend and flex my leg, how to massage out the muscle.  He was really quiet.  I think he was almost as embarrassed as I was.  

I hate this.  I hate everything about it.  I suppose it’s my own fault for doing too much at once, for not being faithful with my exercises and sitting on my arse for four months, letting everything atrophy.  I’m trying not to be down about it, but it’s hard.  I finally get out again, have some fun, and I’m holed up for days afterward like some bleeding invalid.  

Anyway, I got up eventually.  The stuff Sherlock helped me with really did help.  And I’ve been trying to get on my feet every little bit and walk around, to keep the blood flowing.  

Sherlock half rises from his armchair, or looks up with a sudden jerk of his head every time I move to stand.  I know he is just looking to see if I need help, but it irritates me.  So when he offered to make me lunch at bit ago, I shouted at him.  I know, I know…  He was just being considerate, and I was—well I was horrid.  

The worst part about it, is he still made me lunch.  A nice chicken sandwich, and some vegetable soup.  I was sitting in my chair, hiding behind the daily paper because, honestly, I was pretty ashamed of myself.  And then there’s this tray on my lap, and food there.  I thanked him.  I ate it all.  I didn’t even snip about him watching me the entire time.  And I smiled at him when I was done.

I know I need to apologise, but it’s so hard for some reason…

 

* * *

The rest of yesterday passed pretty much the same.  When it got dark we ordered take-away, and then Sherlock asked if I needed help with my exercises again.  I told him ‘no’, but it became pretty evident after a few minutes of my own attempts that I was pretty useless on my own, so we ran through them all again, just like before.

This time felt better, like things were getting worked out.  The massage was grand.  It’s no secret that Sherlock’s pretty deft with his fingers, a violinist’s fingers, a lock picker’s fingers.  He’s brilliant at massage, too, it turns out.  He learned quickly, and his second attempt was far better than the first.  I almost thought I could get up the stairs to my room, but Sherlock must have read my mind, because he said, “No, you’re not ready.  Stay down here again.”

So, I did.  And then…  Well, it was different last night.

We settled as before.  I think we both fell asleep very quickly (I’m really quite pleased with how much he has been sleeping!), but—and this hasn’t happened in such a long while—I had a nightmare, sometime close to dawn, not sure of exactly what time.  I have a vague recollection of what it involved.  It was another of my dreams of Bart’s, that day, you know…  It’s been well over a year since I had that dream, so I don’t know why now, but I woke up gasping.  

That’s the worst of it, that feeling when you first wake up, like you’ve been holding your breath underwater too long, and you break the surface and gasp, and gasp, and there’s just not enough oxygen to fill your lungs. I think I might have said Sherlock’s name a couple of times, I can’t remember. 

Sometimes when I first wake, I’m still sort of asleep, you know.  Like I’m only half aware.  And this time was the same.  After awhile my brain sort of registered Sherlock’s voice.  I didn’t even realise I was in his room, so I think I thought I was still dreaming.  I—I don’t know, it’s really fuzzy.  But, I just went to the voice.  In the dream I’d just seen him falling, and falling, and…  Well, I can’t.  I just can’t go there.  But I just went to the voice, because in my head it was like he was dead, but if I could hear him, then it must mean it was a mistake, right?  It wasn’t him lying there.  All a big, horrible mistake. 

It got warm, then, and after a bit, I could sort of breathe again, and it was okay, because Sherlock was there, and it had been a mistake—or rather it had been a dream.  I think I said something about it, like, “You didn’t fall…”  Sort of in relief, really.

He just replied, “No, John.  I’m fine.”  And that’s when I sort of registered everything.  Like the fact that we were all tangled up together, and that the words he’d just said had been murmured against the top of my head.  I was tucked up under his chin, wrapped in him.  I don’t know how I got there, and I’m too embarrassed to ask now, in light of day, but…

Well, here’s the thing.  I just sort of stayed there.  I didn’t comment on it, because honestly it felt so good in the moment.  To _know_ that he was alive, to actually be able to feel it in the breath against my crown, and the press of his hand on my back, and the fingers of his other hand woven in my hair.  The way our legs were so tangled together that I didn’t know where his ended and mine began.  I was sort of half in dream state, or at least enough in dream state that I didn’t stop to think about any of it.  It seemed perfectly natural.

I must have fallen back asleep like that, and when I woke later he was still there.  It was light, and he was still there, and still sleeping.  That’s huge!  Sherlock doesn’t sleep.  Well, I mean he sleeps, but it’s usually when his body literally cannot function anymore. 

So I pulled back just a little, very carefully.  I didn’t want to wake him, but I wanted to—well, honestly I wanted to indulge myself and just look at him a little.  I wanted to be able to look at him without him playing deduction, and over-analysing the whole situation.  Maybe I just—maybe I just wanted to look because I could.  

I remember when he was away those two years, I almost forgot his face, near the end.  There were photos, of course.  But that’s not the same.  I remember the morning I woke up and couldn’t remember his face anymore.  I had one of the worst panic attacks I can remember.  Fortunately, Greg came by later that day, with a video Sherlock had made for my birthday the year he died.  

Oh god, was his timing ever fortuitous.  I’m not sure I could have borne it, to not be able to remember the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, or furrowed slightly between the brows when he was worrying needlessly, the way he would worry his bottom lip a little when uncertain.

But this morning, I just watched him.  It must have been an hour, maybe more.  I watched his eyes move beneath his lids, his brow furrow, his lips part almost as though he might speak, but nothing came out but a small sigh.  

I thought about that night in Afghanistan, and that kiss.  James had such a nice mouth, and I had kissed him back when he leaned into me because I wanted to.  I really did.

I’ll be honest.  I looked at Sherlocks’ mouth and I wondered what it might be to kiss him too.  His mouth defies belief, just like everything else about him.  He’s got a face an artist must have dreamed up.  That lips like that should exist and not be kissed really seems a terrible shame.  Of course, I had no idea if he would even…  I didn’t know then what he likes.  There was a time when I thought…  But then there was Adler, and Janine, and  I don’t know.  I just felt that there was no way to know for sure.

And I think I was staring at his mouth, and just sort of thinking, and when I looked up he was awake, and watching me, and I think he saw—something.  Oh god, I think I must have been horribly transparent, because his cheeks went pink, and that just made my situation worse, because he looked so…  He looked so gorgeous.  

There.  Okay.  I said it.  He is just so damn beautiful all of the time.  I had to do something to break the odd feeling that had arisen between us, so I just said, “Hey…”

It was meant to be casual, and light, to break the tension a little, but it came out a lot softer than I meant.  Like the voice you use in church, sort of hushed reverence.  I didn’t mean for it to come out that way, and it didn’t help.  

Sherlock licked his lips, and his eyes shone.  It looked like maybe there were tears there.  I should have—I think I should have—maybe I should have walked away.  I don’t know.  I don’t know anymore.  But, I didn’t.  I kissed him.

God, how I kissed him…

I didn’t mean that either.  I meant it to just be a press of lips, just a good-morning, an apology, a  thank-you, or—or—something.  But not…

I was almost chaste at first.  That’s why I think I meant it as just between friends.  But then he kissed back, and I hadn’t expected that.  And I hadn’t expected him to make that sound at the back of his throat, something between a whimper and a moan.  I really hadn’t expected him to pull me close again, to cling onto me like he was drowning.

I think I got a little drunk off of all that.  I was almost dizzy, and I just kissed, and kissed him, and he got so warm, and he was so close, and I know that he knew what it did to me, that kiss.  He had me pulled too close for him not to know.  I think it would have been worse if he wasn’t in the same condition.  But, he was.  We both were—together.

Once we were in the middle of it, I didn’t know how to slow it down, to stop it.  I don’t think it even occurred to me to try, you know.  It was—well, I hadn’t been that keyed up in a really long time.  You get lost in it.  I think somewhere my brain was trying to tell me that it was a bad idea, that I could lose everything, but I ignored it, because he was so beautiful, and pliant, and his hands were everywhere at once.  

I touched him back, too.  I admit it.  I think I took his t-shirt off at some point, or he did.  It disappeared, anyway, because I could see that small scar, still pink, from where Mary shot him, and that’s when I got—I got kind of emotional about it.  It reminded me of everything, and the dream was still clinging to the edges of my mind, and here was this reminder of how I almost lost him again, how my stupid choices almost got him killed.  

Yeah, my choices.  My wife.  That wife I had no business even marrying when he came back because I knew years ago that other relationships weren’t compatible with my life with Sherlock.  

I was suddenly angry at myself.  I hated how weak I’ve been.  What a coward.  Why do I…  Why have I ever chosen anyone else but him?  I remember those long, cold, horrible days when he was dead.  I remember sitting alone in the dark, just staring at the wall, and swearing that if by some chance, he performed some kind of miracle and came back to me, how I would never let him go again.  I promised myself that over, and over, and then there he was, and I just went ahead and married someone else.  

Why?!  Why did I do that?  What is wrong with me?!!

But, I’m—that’s getting away from _that_ ^^  up there.  Like I was saying, I got emotional when I saw that scar, and I think I must have been crying.  I tasted salt when I kissed it.  Yeah, I know…  This sounds so…  But, it just happened.  I wanted it to happen, I think.  No.  I know.  I did.  I have.  I’ve wanted it for a long time.

Maybe that’s why, then…  Well, it was over pretty fast.  I sort of embarrassed myself really.  I’d not done that since I was 16.  In the last few years, I’ve had the opposite problem, really, so I wasn’t expecting to…  Well, let’s be honest, I wasn’t expecting any of it!

When my head cleared, I realised that Sherlock was laying there blinking at me.  He looked so worried.  And I felt horrible, just horrible.  He was laying there worried about me, a tear and come-stained mess, when he was still painfully in need of attention.  I didn’t even know if he wanted that - to finish.  I didn’t know if he’d wanted any of what had just happened.  I felt sick.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just whispered, “I’m sorry.”

And Sherlock swallowed, and looked so small, so flushed and lovely, but a little terrified too, and he just said, “Why?”

Why?  It was a good question.  I didn’t know why.  I was sorry for coming in my pants like a kid, and leaving him there suffering, sure.  But, I was also sorry for presuming any of this was okay, for forging ahead in a frenzy without asking if it was okay, sorry for anything I’d done wrong, anything I’d assumed, anything I’d just destroyed.  But then, on top of that I was also sorry that it had taken me so long.  Sorry I’d been an idiot.  Sorry I hadn’t been braver.  And none of that makes sense, I know.

“Just—sorry,” was all I managed.

His face sort of fell, then.  And he said, “You didn’t want it?”

“Oh god, Sherlock—yes!  Of course, I did.” I said without thought, and it was the truth.  I’m ashamed to say I kissed him again (again without asking).  I couldn’t keep my hands (or lips) off of him.

But, this was the right answer, it seems, because then he was kissing me again, and he was almost frantic.  I just—well I was so overcome from the bliss of what had just happened that I had no energy.  I kind of just held him as close as I could, and kissed his neck, and stroked his back, and murmured things I can’t even remember (okay, maybe I remember, but I don’t really want to put it down in writing, because it was personal, really personal, and writing it down feels like it would ruin it somehow).  But anyway, it wasn’t very long before he finished too.

I wanted to just stay there, to not move, or say anything.  I wanted to freeze time if I could.  It was maybe the most perfect moment I’ve ever experienced.  Because—well, I think I love him.  I mean, of course I love him.  I’ve always loved him, but I mean—‘in love’.  I think maybe I’m in love with him.  

Oh god…

 

* * *

So, we didn’t talk about it.  

All day today there was paperwork at The Yard for that case the other day, and then dinner at Angelo’s, and then my leg was so much better, and I didn’t know how to broach the subject of sleeping arrangements, so I said good-night, and Sherlock looked up from the journal he was reading, and did that thing he does, where he looks like he’s reading everything about you in a glance, and after a moment he just said, “Alright.  Good-night.”

 I should have said, “Are you coming?”  I should have gone through the kitchen to his room.  But I didn’t.  I came up here to my own damn, cramped, little room.  I’m…  God, I’m still such a coward!

So I’m sat up here by myself, listening to him playing the violin downstairs.  It’s my favourite piece, too.  Something by somebody ‘Barber’, I think.  It’s sort of sad, but beautiful.  It was on top of the list in the file, but I’m too tired to get up to check.  Some kind of adagio, or something.  Anyway, the piece isn’t the point.  The fact that I’m sat up here listening to it like a love-lorn teenager, instead of down there telling him that I would very much like to take him to bed is the point.

Maybe I will read some more of that file.  There is still the rest of that list - bits about me making people into heroes, and something about me being a romantic to a fault, and second-guessing myself, and…

You know what.  Sod this!

 

* * *

Well, I did it.  I told him.  I figured that might be it, you know.  I figured it was fairly likely I had misread the entire situation, that the fumbling make-out session was just a one-off, and we’d either go back to the way things were, or it would sort of slowly destroy everything we had built all these years.

I don’t know why I thought that.  I’m an idiot, I guess.

Last night I just went back downstairs, and by the time I reached the bottom Sherlock had already turned around.  He stood there playing, staring at me, like he knew I had something to say, like he was waiting for me to speak.

I didn’t know what I was going to say, or how I was going to start.  I didn’t have a plan.  I should have had a plan, now I think of it.  But—well, it all worked out for the best, I guess.

He played, and stared.  No.  Gazed.  You know that thing he does.  He played and gazed, and then I just blurted.  “I love you.”

He just about dropped his violin.  He caught it in time, thank god, but then just stood there with it clutched to his chest like an infant.  

“I’m _in love_ with you,” I clarified.  It was easier now the first bit was out.

He still didn’t say anything.  It was like he was frozen.  His eyelashes fluttered a little, and his lips sort of twitched once, like he might be thinking about forming some words, but nope—nothing.

I’m used to that sort of thing.  I was worried, but not hopeless yet.  I waited a bit.  He went very pale, and then a flush started to creep up his neck and onto his cheeks.

“You…?”  He finally managed.  But, then his mouth closed again. 

“Yeah, I do,” I answered, and waited—and waited…

It was little awkward.  

But, now the words were out, everything just seemed easy.  So I walked up, and I took the violin from his hands, and set it carefully on the table, and I looked up at him, and I asked, “Do you want me to kiss you again?”

Still with the staring!  But this time he nodded his head—a quick, eager nod.  So, I stepped forward, reached up, and pulled him down to me.  And this time I kissed him properly—nice, and slow, and deep, and sweet.  It was perfect.  And I could feel all the tension draining out of him, the longer we stood there.  He just sort of melted into me, and all the feelings of the other morning came back—that rightness, that warmth, and joy of holding him after we were both sated and calm.  

When we finally parted, I smiled.  He smiled back.  The smile I really love—the one that goes all the way to his eyes.  “Wanna go to bed?”  I asked.

“Yes,” he replied.  

And we did.  And it was amazing—again.

And now things are different, but not.  Everything’s the same with the cases, and the washing up, and the cooking, and the weird things in the crisper, and bickering over the state of the kitchen table, but…

I told him about the file.  He said he knew I had it.  He hoped I didn’t hate him.

I reminded him that just last night I told him I loved him, and I’ve had the file for days, so he should use that great brain of his, and grow some common sense.  He smiled, then.

I told him that I wanted to finish reading it, because it was really lovely in a lot of ways.  Oh, I know it’s kind of weird, too, but that’s just Sherlock.  

In Sherlock’s world the file is—well, it’s about love, I think.  He wants to know every little detail, all the minutia that makes me up, because he needs to understand.  That understanding makes him love me even more.  Or, maybe it’s just that he likes having a little mystery to solve so close to home, and the surety that it is a mystery he will have his whole life to figure out.

So… super-secret, confidential, and kind of border-line creepy though it is, I’m really very grateful for that bloody file.  Because I’m not sure that any of this would have happened if I hadn’t found it, hadn’t read it, and been jarred out of that weird stasis I’ve been in for months (for years really).

Sherlock’s different, sure.  But, he’s brilliant, and fascinating, and frustrating, and gorgeous, too.  He’s a bloody genius, is what he is.  He’s my bloody genius.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is obviously not a part of "The Homecoming Series". I do intend to finish that series, but the muses are being uncooperative at the moment.
> 
> I do have a long fic I co-wrote with londoninjune that is in the editing stage, however, so that should be posted in the next month or so.


End file.
